


Flight

by Bogglocity



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Confession, F/M, Trope Mash-Up, charoga, erik's also there kinda, goodbye kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bogglocity/pseuds/Bogglocity
Summary: Time has run out and words must be said now if they are to be said at all.





	Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a trope mash-up prompt, '24 Hours To Live' and 'Poorly-Timed Confession'. An AU in which Christine and Erik met shortly after her father's death and traveled to Persia (and subsequently met the Daroga) together. Set on the night of Erik's flight from execution.

“It was always you.”

She whispers it to him on a breeze of moonlit purple hyacinth in that accented Persian, little louder than Erik’s adjustment of tack, the huff of the two bay horses some feet away, little louder than the blood pounding in his ears. The pack he had been handing her is heavier than he remembers it having been moments ago. The knot at the base of his throat, tight and sharp, is all the tighter.

She looks at him, into him, dark circles under the eyes that flit between his features in search of a reaction beyond the swallowing of the words, an attempt to register them, an attempt at understanding that must show on his face because her own becomes desperate.

“Siavash,” his name a plea, and a syllable escapes him, a question, rough and unable to grasp—why would you say this now? Why here?—and he glances to Erik in search of aid but all he is given is a look of melancholy understanding before it returns, pointed and purposeful, to the horses. When he turns back, tears streak down the curve of her cheeks. “Please. Don’t let me go without saying something.” His brain sticks, his tongue thick.

“Keep your hair hidden,” he finally rasps, and her heart shatters in every aspect of her face, but he can almost sense the tramping of boots in the distant prison, and the sifting of wind through the concealing ironwood has him rigid, urgent. “Don’t stop riding until you make it out.”

“Siavash.” He hands her the pack, closes her fingers around it, gripping just a second too long to be nothing, but it makes the space beneath his sternum burn to hold her hands like this, for this, when the horses are restless and Erik mounts his own in wait.

“Don’t stop,” he repeats, though it chokes him and turns the air in his lungs to glass with the words he wants to say, should say. He has the chance now, his only chance now. Should, should say something. Instead, he pulls his hands away from her, fingers already left wanting.

But they are taken again, the pack falling to the ground beside them and hands fly to his jaw, skirts at his toes, lips to his lips in a single, heartbreaking, reeling instant.

They are gone before his breath can catch, galloping specks in the distance, and he is left with the cloying scent of hyacinth in his mouth.


End file.
